The Consulting Killer
by CorvaCorvidae
Summary: Magnussen dies on Christmas Eve- not at Sherlock's hand but at the hand of Seraphin Holmes, aka The Consulting Killer. Who is Seraphin Holmes, and why is she so determined to get Sherlock and John together? JohnLock, GoodBigBrother!Mycroft, and BAMF!Mrs. Hudson
1. Chapter 1

Note: This story begins at the end of "His Last Vow", from which point it deviates from the canon. Eurus does not exist in this story (mainly because it's a shitty name and also because Season Four is being entirely disregarded).

 **Chapter One - 24** **th** **of December, 2014**

"You just remember it all?" Dr. John Watson asked from where he stood next to a still silent Sherlock Holmes.

"It's all about knowledge." Charles Magnussen replied, getting up from his chair. "Everything is. Knowing is owning."

"But if you just know it then you don't have proof." John argued as Magnussen slipped past him, making his way over to the long mahogany desk.

"Proof? What would I need proof for?" Magnussen chuckled, trailing his hand over the wood. "I'm in news, you moron."

If it were possible, which, apparently, it was, Magnussen's smirk grew even smugger as he settled into the plush chair behind his desk, leaning back and clasping his hands together casually on his stomach. "I'd don't have to prove it. I just have to print it."

"Speaking of news, you will both be heavily-"

At the crack in the man's voice, Sherlock's expression changed from one of frantic recalculation to sudden alertness.

"You will both," Magnussen attempted again, before he reached up, removed his glasses, and vigorously rubbed at his eyes. "You will both be, be featured tomorrow with, with state secrets and,"

His glasses dropped to the carpeted floor.

"What," Magnussen's voice cracked again, this time as his head lolled frighteningly to one side. "What have you done to me?"

Sherlock and John exchanged questioning glances. Magnussen gave another lurch, prompting John- ever the doctor- to rush forward, searching for the man's pulse along his jugular vein.

"Sherlock, his pulse is erratic; he seems to be going into-" John cut off as Magnussen pitched forward, landing heavily upon his desk.

"Cardiac arrest." A feminine voice finished, floating through the opened doors of the balcony directly adjacent to the three men. "But not for another ten minutes or so."

John whirled around just in time to see a rather small figure drop down from what must've been a small roof or ledge above the doors, landing in a soundless crouch before gracefully righting herself at a height no more than 160cm.

"Tell me, Charles, does it hurt?" The woman stepped forward, lifting the shadows that had previously hidden her features. Lit by the synthetic light of Magnussen's office, John could now see the pomegranate-colored tresses that fell just past angular shoulders, a light scatter of freckles across a small, pointed nose, and gray-blue eyes that shone sharply from under thick eyelashes. She looked rather familiar, though John couldn't place why.

She was no older than twenty-three or twenty-four, and dressed in a grossly oversized blue cable knit sweater that threatened to engulf her knees. On her feet were tactical boots, though her pair lacked both general bulk and heaviness of the soles, and on her legs were thick leggings printed in black, blue, and grey camouflage.

"Or is it only the paralysis that's begun?" She asked, and then moved towards them, the swishing of her wool sweater the only detectable sound.

Reaching the side of the desk, she stopped, leaning down to study Magnussen's head where it lay in a heap of disturbed documents. Drool had begun to trickle out the side of his mouth.

"I suppose you're hardly in any shape to answer." She considered, and then looked up. "Perhaps, if you'd not pissed in his fireplace, Dr. Watson would be more inclined to help you right now."

John, startled at the mention of his name, looked over at Sherlock, who had adopted the confused, if not altogether lost, look that had stricken his face just moments earlier when Magnussen had revealed his vaults- or distinct lack of- to the two.

"You know," She continued. "You two aren't supposed to be here. Mycroft said he'd keep you occupied."

Sherlock's eyes flitted, first to the incapacitated form of his most current archenemy and then to that of the most recent arrival, before finally landing on John. Noticing the subtle way John's hand was beginning to migrate to the back of his waistband where both men knew John's army revolver was securely kept, he shook his head sharply. John's hand stopped.

He turned back to the woman. "Yes, I drugged him." He replied, a touch of forced nonchalance seeping into his tone.

"Wonderful." The woman laughed lightly, albeit dryly. "I'm sure that'll make for a lovely Christmas."

"Sorry, but what's-" John began, his forehead crinkled in confusion.

Sherlock quickly interrupted. "John, this is Seraphin. Seraphin, this, as you clearly already know, is John."

The woman, Seraphin, smiled, leaning over the desk with her hand outstretched in greeting. "It's nice to finally meet you, John. I've heard a lot about you, of course." Hesitantly, John shook it, still glancing at Sherlock questioningly.

Seeing this, Seraphin sighed. "Really, Sherlock. You've lived with John for how long and you still haven't mentioned me?"

"I wasn't planning on mentioning Mycroft either, but he took the initiative." Sherlock shrugged dismissively, looking pointedly away from both accusatory sets of eyes.

"Your," John, not being nearly as slow as most people credited him as being, connected the dots. "Are you Sherlock's sister?"

"The youngest and least aggravating of the Holmes siblings, yes." Seraphin smiled broadly, exposing a row of white teeth and particularly pointed canines, before leaning over and replacing John's fingers at Magnussen's pulse point with her own. "But there will be time for more thorough introductions later. For now, I have a job to do."

"A job?" Sherlock questioned.

"Yes. It seems, my dear brother, that the powers that be found you in need of intervention." She hummed in response, moving quickly behind the desk and leaning over Magnussen's prone form. "Again."

"And by powers that be you mean Mycroft."

"Of course."

"And you're his intervention?"

She nodded absently in agreement as she carelessly lifted Magnussen's head by his right ear, examining his pupillary response and sclera with interest.

"I was fine on my own." Sherlock continued, his lips turning downwards in annoyance.

"Were you now?" Seraphin looked up sharply, dropping Magnussen's head with a dull thud and an answering groan. "Don't play me for a fool, Sherlock, we both know I'm not one."

Sherlock scoffed, but she continued to examine Magnussen with only a somewhat cross look in her brother's direction.

"Right now, you're desperate. Magnussen's files have proved intangible; his vaults, non-existent. Your plan to entrap him through Mycroft's laptop has backfired, placing both you and John in a rather precarious situation. He's beaten you. And so, you're left with only one option."

She paused, as though to give Sherlock the opportunity to chime in. Seeing him in brooding silence, she continued. "That one option is to kill Magnussen. It makes sense, I suppose. After all, you have the opportunity, the motive, and the tools. But you're missing something rather important."

"And what might that be?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed in challenge.

"The escape." She answered simply, before curving herself around Magnussen's fallen form, carefully avoiding any bodily contact with him as she extracted his cell phone from his breast pocket. "But of course, you know that."

John's eyes were now frantic as the bounced between Sherlock, Magnussen, and Seraphin. "Sherlock, you can't-"

"Quiet, John." Sherlock snapped.

"You plan on getting caught, don't you Sherlock? Because in your mind, the consequences- which, may I remind you, could range from your permanent termination to exile or imprisonment- are worth it. Mary will be free, and by association so will John, and they'll be able to live out their happy, boring little lives together in a house surrounded by a white picket fence with a baby and maybe a dog." She snorted contemptuously as she popped open the back of the phone, removed the battery and the memory card, replaced the former, and then settling the phone back in Magnussen's pocket. Flipping back his suit jacket, she pulled a small silver key from a hidden pocket that had been sewn into the lining. "You've gone soft, brother mine."

She moved towards a locked drawer in Magnussen's desk. "I suppose love does that to a person,"

"Shut up, Seraphin," Sherlock began, teeth clenching so Sherlock's teeth were clenched so tightly that John could hear them squeak.

"Even so, what a disappointment." She finished, ignoring the agitated man as he slammed his palms onto Magnussen's desk, heedless of the man who lay there.

"You know nothing."

"I know everything, Sherlock." She replied, holding his angry gaze easily.

"You, on the other hand, apparently lack the barest of common sense. I mean really," She laughed, chastising, as she pulled an ornate wooden box out of the previously locked drawer. "Have the barest of faith in Mycroft and all the other higher powers. After all, they didn't let Moriarty dethrone them and he was far greater a man than Magnussen could ever hope to be."

"Please, they were perfectly content to let Moriarty prance about London playing God so long-" Sherlock began, before being cut of as Magnussen gave a rather desperate gasp. Seraphin glanced at a small, leather bound watch on her right wrist.

"Respiratory distress at minute twenty-eight. Right on track, then." She grinned, before dislodging a satchel that had sat previously on her back. Carefully, she slipped the box and the memory chip into it and then placed the bag gently on the ground.

"Not that it really matters now, but how were you planning on dispatching him, hmm?"

Sherlock remained stubbornly silent, though his eyes betrayed ambiguous curiosity as he studied the gasping man beneath him.

"A gun, perhaps? It'd have to be John's, seeing as how Mycroft has been quite religious in sabotaging your attempts to get your own. You brought a knife with you- in your back pocket- but that's awfully messy for you- probably only brought along a last resort, then. It's possible, and considering Charles' limited agility and experience and slightly shorter stature, that you planned to best him in hand-to-hand combat, as it would be a fight easily won. But no, I think I'd have to go with the gun." She cocked her head curiously, drawing closer to Sherlock as she moved out from behind the desk.

"That seems rather out of character for you, Sherlock, just killing him. You didn't even try to come up with another cleverer option, didn't try to outwit him at his own game. Instead you were going to just," She made a gun with her fingers, pulling the imaginary trigger. "Kill him. It's all rather dull."

"Isn't that what you're doing?" Sherlock shot back, his grip tightening on the edge of the desk, turning his knuckles white.

"Ah, but you're missing the nuance, Sherlock." Seraphin sung, shaking her head and causing a tumble of red curls to drift into her face. "This isn't killing him. This is destroying him."

"Look." She motioned towards Magnussen. His eyes were wide though not unseeing as his mouth opened in a voiceless cry, his body trembling and shuddering, chest heaving.

"What you can see are only the physical effects. First, his nervous system failed, causing general paralysis of the body, while keeping his mind intact. He would've felt some symptoms beforehand, of course- the quickened heart rate, the sensation of an impossibly dry mouth, and perhaps even some dizziness- all of which he disregarded in favor of chatting with you.

"After total paralysis, he would begin to feel a heat right in foremost of his brain. Right behind the eyes, or perhaps around the temples. A bit like a migraine. He likely wouldn't have noticed this, given that paralysis is generally more concerning to most than a silly headache. But then, the burning would've started.

"I imagine it would, at first, feel as though there was a hungry little flame sitting atop your thalamus. Then, it would radiate outwards, as though someone had set fire to your brain from within your skull- encompassing your cerebral cortex and occipital lobe and perhaps even the vitreous body of your eyeballs, eating away at your tissues, cells, and nerves like a ravenous little hookworm.

"That would hurt quite a bit, but it wouldn't be what hurt the most." She leaned down to meet Magnussen's eyes, now locked on her form and seeming to cling to every word she was saying. "What would hurt the most is him having to watch as his archives- each file individually filled with pressure points and weaknesses and personal data all so meticulously collected and tucked away to be retrieved at any time to suit any purpose- burned to ash. Perhaps he'd try to save them, burning his hands as he so desperately attempted to stop the fire from ravaging them, only to fail. He would find he could do little more than watch as his vaults were torn down around him, burying him in soot and decay. His precious mind palace- gone."

Magnussen had begun to seize properly, his body clenching and retracting against the desk, the chair threatening to fall out from under him. "Even now, as his body goes into shock and his internal organs begin to shut down, he can't bring himself to care about anything else but the ruins.

"I bet he'd have preferred it if I let you shoot him, Sherlock." Seraphin rummaged in the desk one last time, before producing a small flash drive. Instead of placing it in her bag along with the box and memory card, however, she merely dropped it to the floor and, with a sharp, downward movement of her foot, crushed it underneath her boot. "It'd have been much easier."

A frothy mixture of blood and saliva had begun to pour from the side of Magnussen's mouth.

"That would be his heart failing in the thirty-first minute." She said, picking up a loose pen and slowly trailing it through the fluid, further distorting the documents that lay under him. She then met the man's eyes with an almost kind smile. "You should be dead within the next two to four, if it's any comfort."

She dropped the pen into the bin beside the desk, pointed nose wrinkling in vague distaste.

The sound of an approaching helicopter could be heard amongst the gurgling sounds of Magnussen's mangled, quickening breaths, prompting Seraphin to look up.

"That's my cue, I'm afraid." She sighed, rolling her shoulders and flexing her neck from side to side.

"But before I leave," She trailed off, instead rushing soundlessly from the room in the direction the men had come.

John quickly turned to Sherlock, clearly bursting with numerous yet-unanswered questions.

"It's," Sherlock began, haltingly, before shaking his head. "I'll explain later. We haven't the time now anyways."

Seraphin re-entered, this time carrying Mycroft's laptop. She quickly made her way over to her satchel, slipped the computer inside, zipped it back up, and slung it across her back. "I'd better be off, Mycroft's men will be arriving any moment."

Sherlock nodded- the sounds of the helicopter blades beating against the air were much closer now, likely mere seconds away from landing.

She rushed towards the open doors, one leg up on the balcony railing before she paused. "Oh and Sherlock," She said, glancing back towards the two men. "Do hurry home. You know how Mummy so enjoys Chrismas morning."

Without another word, she leapt, disappearing into the cool night of the Cotswolds countryside.


	2. Chapter 2

**September 10th, 2014 - Late Evening**

 **John**

John Watson was sitting in the hall outside the surgical suite. Beside him was a haggard looking Greg Lestrade, bent over a long-cold cup of coffee. Mycroft Holmes- usually the picture of impeccability- paced next to their bench, shoes clicking on the tile and hand running through his hair at a rate of approximately once every thirty-two seconds.

Though it was heavily dampened by thick, sterile white walls and heavy swinging doors, all three men could hear the sharp beep-beep-beep of a pulse oximetry, just as all three men could vividly remember the several minutes during which the beeping had stopped- becoming instead a constant, a flat line, as Sherlock's heart stopped for the first time.

That time had been the longest, followed by four more occurrences lasting, cumulatively, no more than forty-five seconds each before the best surgeons and perioperative nurses in the UK succeeded in their near-constant struggle to keep Sherlock's heart beating.

During those moments, but none more so than the first, John had felt such a keen sense of desperation and helplessness, of loss and utter despair. He was sure that his two companions felt similarly although- selfishly- he thought that perhaps they felt it to a lesser degree than he must.

John's eyes had closed, and he had almost drifted off to sleep, lulled by the mechanical beeping when a nurse, still wearing her surgical scrubs, hairnet, and mask, appeared. "Mr. Holmes?" She asked.

John couldn't help but notice the blood that splattered her blue shirt and the skin of her upper arms where her gloves wouldn't have reached.

"Yes." Mycroft responded, vainly attempting to smooth the wrinkles that now decorated his suit. At her indication, he followed the nurse a few paces away from the other men. She spoke to him in a low tone, but both John and Greg could hear the odd phrase and word, like "collapsed lung", "unstable", "internal hemorrhaging", and "poor outlook", leaving them stuck wishing she would've spoken both louder and softer- so they could hear all of it or not at all.

With Mycroft's sharp nod, the nurse retreated back into the operating room, leaving a solitary drop of blood where she had stood. John stared at it blankly.

Mycroft said nothing, but he chose to sit down next to Greg instead of resume his pacing. Greg gave a curious glance in his direction but, seeing the way Mycroft sunk his head into his hands, quickly decided it best not to ask any questions.

Once again, they were left only to listen to the steady beep-beep-beep and the occasional whirl of surgical machinery.

John, the adrenaline and worry giving way to unfiltered exhaustion, slipped into sleep. This time when he woke it was not to the sound of an anxious nurse but to the smell of fresh coffee. Mycroft was holding a cup, fresh tendrils rising from its surface, though his still-rumpled suit and throw-away Styrofoam of the container indicated a trip to the cafeteria rather than a trip home.

"He'll be out of surgery any minute." Greg commented, his face impassive. "They think they've gotten all the bullet fragments, but it's too dangerous to keep him under any longer."

At John's questioning glance, Mycroft clarified.

"His previous," he cleared his throat, "addiction weakened his heart. The anesthesiologist is concerned that if they continue, he'll become irretrievable. They have managed to repair the hemorrhage, remove what they believe are all the bullet fragments, and place a chest tube to relieve the internal pressure of the collapsed lung.

"They have made plans to continue reparative surgery later in the week, given he survives until then."

John nodded blankly. For once, he wished he lacked a medical degree. His brain was a flurry of statistics- the likelihood that an overlooked shard of shrapnel would migrate into Sherlock's heart before the next surgery, the chance that a clogged chest tube would lead to respiratory arrest, the near inevitability that the hemorrhage would recur and-

"Hey." Greg interrupted, placing a wide palm on John's shoulder. "He may not be out of the woods yet, but it's Sherlock. He's nothing if not a stubborn bastard."

 **September 11th, 2014 - Early Morning**

 **Greg**

By the time Sherlock was moved to his room- private, of course, and courtesy of Mycroft- the sun was just beginning to soften the night sky into an orange-tinted gray.

Mycroft had left, citing an emergency of international import, and John had taken watch at Sherlock's bedside, leaving Greg to wander down to the cafeteria in search of breakfast.

He had to wonder if a hospital cafeteria wasn't the loneliest place to be at 5:43 in the morning; if there was a place lonelier Greg hoped desperately he never found it.

The tables- white- and the tile floor- off white- were just as empty and sterile as the rest of the building, most lacking any evidence that they had been used since the night cleaning crew swept through hours earlier. One table, closest to the twin pots of coffee- one marked decaf, almost full, while the other dwindled towards empty- had a few napkins strewn about it, indicating it as the one night-shift doctors, ambulance drivers, and the lonely parents of hospitalized children used.

Greg, being none of the above, made his way to the clean table directly opposite. With a fresh cup of coffee in hand, he waited for the clock to announce 6 and, with it, the readiness of the cafeteria's staff for breakfast.

"Mind if I join you?" A voice- feminine with a thick cockney accent- asked.

He simply gestured to the seat in front of him, not looking up from his cup.

He could hear the swish of polyester as whoever had spoken moved to take the proffered seat with a heavy thud and an equally heavy sigh.

"Long night?" The accented voice spoke again.

Greg looked up to find himself seated across from a rather petite woman. Pomegranate-colored hair was tied up in a tight bun, angular shoulders swamped by a thick forest-green paramedic's coat. A faint scattering of freckles clouded her pointy nose and pale cheeks as she watched him carefully, appraisingly, with sharp gray-blue eyes.

He cleared his throat. "Yeah, you?"

She merely nodded, plunking a tea bag into a cup of hot water with a tired nonchalance.

They sat in silence for a moment, Greg trying to consume his coffee as quickly as he could in the hopes that the caffeine would jolt him awake, but burning his tongue and having to slow his pace.

"You're a policeman, yeah?" The woman asked, taking a sip of her tea.

Greg nodded, a bit confused as to how she could tell. She motioned to his hip. He hadn't noticed before, but his gun was still half-drawn from his holster, peeking out from underneath his coat. Quickly, he readjusted it, and settled his jacket so as to cover both his gun and his badge. "Detective inspector, actually."

"Here for the gunshot victim, then?"

Greg nodded again.

"I was part of the ambulance team that helped stabilize him at the scene. One of the nurses told me he had pulled through. I'm surprised, you know. With the rate he was losing blood, and the damage he sustained- well, I'm sure you've seen enough to know how bad he was."

Greg stayed silent, which the woman took as a sign to continue.

"You can almost always tell the shooter's intent from the wound itself, you know." She took a gulp of her tea. "Sometimes, we'll transport people who've shot themselves in the foot or something, you know, from messing around. And sometimes we'll get people who've been shot by a jealous spouse or a raging friend- someone who doesn't _really_ want to kill them, but wants them to hurt. They'll maybe get them in the shoulder or the leg, maybe the abdomen if they're really pissed off.

"But that one," She leant forward conspiratorially. "That one was right next to the heart, it was. Whoever shot him meant it. I mean, he near enough died when he was in the back with us. I certainly don't envy the surgical team that had to work on him- I heard his heart stopped three times while he was on the table."

"Five times, actually." Greg corrected.

The woman ignored the irritation in his tone, and emitted a low whistle of amazement. "Who shot him then? I'm guessing it wasn't a drug hit- those guys usually come in with more than one bullet stuck in them- but he does look a bit like the junkie type. Did he piss off his dealer?"

"He's a friend, actually." Greg stated, meeting the woman's eyes with a hard glare.

Her eyes widened. "Oh. Sorry, guess that was rude of me."

Greg hummed, still glaring and desperately hoping she would move tables.

"He a policeman too then?"

Greg closed his eyes, sighing. "No. He's a consulting detective."

"What's that? Like a, what are they called," she tapped her finger, "private detective?"

"A bit."

"Sounds like this bloke one of my friends over at St. Bart's is always going on about. Always asking her to borrow bits and pieces of corpses for experiments or something freaky like that. But she's got a bit of a crush on the wanker so,"

"I should be going." Greg stood, abruptly cutting her off.

"Weren't you waiting for breakfast? The café will open any minute now. I mean, the hash browns are far too greasy, but the eggs aren't half bad."

Greg was already tossing his coffee into the bin and striding quickly towards the door.

"Before you go, Gregory," The cockney accent had suddenly dropped from her voice. At the mention of his voice, Greg slowed. He hadn't recalled introducing himself. "Do remember that whoever shot Sherlock, shot to kill. He was not meant to survive this. And he still mightn't."

Hearing Sherlock's name- which he was sure he hadn't mentioned- had Greg spinning back to face the table he had abandoned in a rush just moments before. But in the half-second it took for him to do so, the woman had already disappeared, leaving behind only her still-steaming cup of tea.

 **September 11th, 2014 - Slightly Later Morning**

 **Seraphin**

Running into Greg Lestrade had been largely coincidental but quite fortuitous. Seraphin had always wanted to introduce herself to the man, one she considered to have an underestimated intellect and the presumed patience of a saint- having put up with Sherlock for so many years.

Running into Mycroft Holmes was also coincidental, but not quite as fortuitous.

"And just what are you doing here, sister mine?"

Seraphin met Mycroft's calculating gaze with her own. "I could ask the same, brother dear."

"Well, I'm not parading around as a paramedic." He answered, eyes glancing coldly at the uniform she still wore. She had discovered it in the breakroom after she had replaced the doctor's coat and scrubs she had taken on her way in.

"Yes, you never could pull off green."

Mycroft's lips tightened. "Let's drop the charade, shall we?"

"It's hardly any fun without it."

"Seraphin."

The two looked at each other intently, each waiting for the other to crack first.

Usually, Seraphin would win this game. Though the youngest of the Holmes', she was by far the most stubborn- if not to a near fatal fault. But she was also the least patient, and her patience was already worn thin.

"Fine, Myc." She acquiesced, though not without throwing out the endearment that Mycroft so thoroughly despised. "I'm here to visit Sherlock."

"Sentiment, Seraphin?" Mycroft scoffed. "Never did I expect you to admit to it so freely."

"And yet, you're here," Seraphin observed, "even after I hacked into your system and sent a rather raunchy email to the Bulgarian prime minister from your address- something certainly deserving of your direct intervention."

Mycroft's jaw clenched so tightly she was sure she could hear his teeth squeak in protest. "Yes, thank you for that."

Seraphin smirked. "So I suppose we've both become rather sentimental, haven't we."

She began to walk around him, but a hand around her upper arm quickly stopped her.

"Why are you really here, Seraphin?" Mycroft whispered, leaning in close. "While I know that you care for Sherlock, you also have a rather demanding job- one I sent you only two days back, if you'll recall- and you're hardly fool enough to waste your time coming to see a comatose man."

"What does that say about you then, brother mine?"

"Would it be too much for you to answer me honestly, if only just this once?"

Seraphin pulled her arm away from her brother's grip, before taking a moment to closely examine the man.

His suit was wrinkled- indicating that he had not been home in at least twenty hours. His coat pocket lacked the subtle bulge of the protein bar Mycroft never left home without, meaning he had not eaten a meal within the last fifteen. His eyes were tired and somewhat sunken, showing both sleeplessness- he had been up all night then- and dehydration- stressed. Finally, he had chosen to remain at the hospital, rather than return to work to make reparations with Bulgaria. Conclusion, Mycroft was genuinely worried about Sherlock.

That gave Seraphin pause. She racked her brain, searching for another moment in which Mycroft had showed such genuine concern for either herself or his younger brother, and came up only with moments that had occurred deep into Sherlock's drug addicted years. Years in which overdoses, periods of self harm and self-endangerment, and suicidal efforts were hardly a rarity. Years in which both the youngest and the oldest of the Holmes siblings had truly wondered whether or not the middle one would survive.

Secondary conclusion, Sherlock's condition was more serious than his admittance report had indicated.

The most appropriate course of action, she decided, was to indulge her brother- if only just this once.

"I'm here to see Sherlock's shooter." She said, a steel edge in her voice. Mycroft's eyebrows furrowed, prompting Seraphin to roll her eyes. "Honestly, Mycroft if you, yourself, reviewed the footage you so meticulously take of our brother instead of having some halfwit staffer do so, you'd know who that is, just the same as I do." She couldn't indulge him too much, after all.

She then reached up and undid her tight bun, letting her red curls fall around her shoulders, discarding the paramedic's jacket as she did so. Beneath it was a gray woolen sweater- grossly oversized, as were all the sweaters she owned.

"Seraphin-"

"Now, now, Mycroft," she grinned. "It's not fair for you to have all the fun."

She turned, wool swishing in the way she so enjoyed, and with a final wave she disappeared around the corner, leaving a tired and frustrated Mycroft in her wake.

 **September 11th, 2014 – Early Afternoon**

 **Sherlock**

"You don't tell him."

Mary's voice cut into Sherlock's mind like a knife, a gleaming blade piercing the thick banks of fog and dulling the continuous ringing that had taken to his ears.

"Sherlock," Her voice was a bit singsongy this time, in a way that made his heart contract painfully in a wave of panic as he was reminded of another person entirely, one that he had originally though more dangerous than the woman sat in front of him. After recent events, however, he was beginning to wonder if he had miscalculated. "You don't tell John."

 _"She's quite naughty, isn't she Sherlock?" Moriarty laughed, his face twisting into an unnatural smile as Sherlock whirled around to face him. "I think I like her."_

 _Sherlock tried desperately for the door, only to find it stuck shut. 'No,' he thought, 'I need to wake up.'_

 _After all, his shooter was in his room, alone apparently, over his prone body. It would take little effort on Mary's part to smother him, to disconnect his Oxygen, or sabotage his breathing tube._

 _"Stay a while, Sherlock. It's not as though you could stop her- you're weak. You're dying. Just let her finish it. It'll be so much easier. Everything is when you're dead."_

 _Sherlock shook his head furiously, fists pounding at the door. He had to live, he had to warn John, had to tell him the truth about Mary._

 _"About yourself, as well." Moriarty added. "Mary's not the only one with a secret."_

 _Sherlock stopped abruptly. Around him, the scene changed._

 _Now, the two of them were stood at the edge of the Reichenbach Falls, water rushing past them at a deafening rate, spraying their clothes with cold droplets of water. Sherlock noticed he was dressed not in his usual coat and suit, but the flimsy disposable fabric of a hospital gown._

 _"You really should tell him, Sherlock." Moriarty grinned, peering over the cliff with a detached nonchalance. "Life is so short, after all. All it takes is one little push, one little bullet, and you're over the edge."_

 _He looked up, studying Sherlock with sharp, black eyes. "You can only survive a fall so many times, Sherlock."_

 _With that, Moriarty stepped over the edge._

 _Sherlock lurched forward, desperately searching the tumbling water below for a sign of the man but found none. He did, however, feel the cold touch of hands at his back through the covering of his paper-thin gown. Moriarty leant in, lips at Sherlock's ear. "One little push, Sherlock."_

 _And then he was falling._

 _But the landing never came._

When he opened his eyes, he once again saw the blurred form of Mary Watson as she stood over him.

"Look at me," She whispered, voice tinged with a cruelty he hadn't before heard, "and tell me you're not going to tell him."

And Sherlock did look at her, but he also looked behind her, where a woman with pomegranate-red hair and an oversized gray sweater was silently standing; watching.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

 **September 15** **th** **, 2014 – Late Evening**

Sherlock woke up with a gasp, sitting straight up in the hospital bed before a red-hot pain, radiating from the center of his chest, forced him to fall back down again.

"I wouldn't sit up quite yet if I were you." Mycroft spoke from his seat across from Sherlock, umbrella clutched tightly in his still-gloved hands.

"So I gathered." Sherlock growled, waiting desperately for the pain to subside. Reaching over to his IV, he went to turn up the morphine.

"Don't." Mycroft warned.

"Janine turned it down." Sherlock replied.

"And then the nurse turned it back up. Really, Sherlock, do you think everyone incompetent?"

"In my experience, everyone is."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but did nothing more to stop Sherlock as he adjusted the morphine drip.

Sherlock sighed, lying back as the analgesic effects of the opiate spread across his body like spider webs. "Mary was here." He recalled.

"Yes. So was Dr. Watson, DI Lestrade, and your pretend girlfriend. You've become quite popular, brother mine." Mycroft sneered with disdain. "Though your particular adamancy over Mrs. Watson is interesting."

Sherlock ignored him. "Seraphin was here as well."

Mycroft paused. "She was concerned about your condition."

"Please." Sherlock scoffed. "When has Seraphin ever acted out of concern?"

"Many times, actually, though you would've been far too high to recall any of them."

Sherlock glared at his brother, though its edge was softened significantly by the morphine. The two sat in silence for several moments, both challenging the other to speak first. It was Mycroft who first caved.

"You knew the shooter, obviously."

Sherlock laughed, and instantly regretted doing so as a sharp spike of pain wracked his torso. "And you don't, obviously. Seems your surveillance is lacking, brother mine."

Mycroft frowned, but didn't argue the point. "It seems pointless for you to continue to protect them."

"I'm not."

"You're protecting someone."

This time, it was Sherlock who frowned, but didn't argue.

"And, to my knowledge, there are few people in this world you would bother protecting." Mycroft sighed, tapping the handle of his umbrella with the tips of his fingers impatiently. "There's that and your repetition of the name 'Mary',"

"Don't." Sherlock cut him off. "You will not meddle in this."

Mycroft studied Sherlock with more interest than he had previously exhibited. "Give me a reason not to. A real reason. A good one."

"Because otherwise John will get hurt." Sherlock would later attribute the honesty of his words to the drugs.

"It's interesting that, in the effort to not hurt John Watson, you'd let him continue to live a lie with the woman who tried to kill you."

"Please, a woman like her hardly misses her target. Obviously, she wasn't actually trying to kill me. She just needed me incapacitated." Sherlock waved off.

"You died, Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was colder than Sherlock could ever remember hearing. "Several times, in fact."

"She called an ambulance."

"You died, Sherlock!" Mycroft shouted, fury etched into his face for the briefest of moments before being quickly replaced by his mask of cold detachment.

Sherlock thought it best not to reply, and wisely stayed silent.

Mycroft continued to stare at him, before a chime from his phone broke his gaze. He took out his phone and, reading the message, his frown deepened.

"Looks as though I must bring this visit to a close, dear brother. There are other matters to which I have to attend." Mycroft stood, readjusting his suit and tapping his umbrella against the tile floor. "I will remain an observer, for now. Rest assured, however, that the moment Mrs. Watson puts a toe out of line I will end her, spectacularly, no matter how your little doctor might feel about it."

Sherlock nodded absently, and Mycroft, realizing he would get no more acknowledgment than this, made for the door.

"You're welcome, by the way." Mycroft noted.

"For what? The doctors, the private room?"

Mycroft stared hard at Sherlock. "It couldn't have escaped your notice that, despite the fact that it would be significantly easier for your nursing staff to keep your torso uncovered, so as to access your wound and monitors directly, you are fully dressed."

It had, in fact, escaped Sherlock's notice. Instantly, a flood of panic rushed through him, though dull and sluggish from the drugs, and his hands shot to his chest. He ignored the pain that erupted as his hands brushed over his wound in favor of the relief that overcame him as he realized his chest and back were indeed fully covered, albeit just barely by the paper-thin disposable gown.

"Can't have John seeing anything, now can we?" Mycroft admonished, seeming to enjoy the panic that had griped his little brother.

Just as he turned and went to place his hand on the knob, the door swung open, revealing the aforementioned doctor.

John appeared haggard- dark half-circles framed his eyes as the under-fed, sleepless pallor of his skin made them stand out even more dramatically. This was expected, considering the circumstances.

"Mycroft." John blinked in surprise. "I thought you had been called away to Bulgaria."

"Yes," Mycroft hummed, "as it turns out the situation was handleable remotely."

"Ah." John nodded, albeit awkwardly. "That's good, I suppose."

Mycroft took a moment to revel in John's discomfort, before turning back to Sherlock. "I trust you'll remember what I said about lines and how they mustn't be crossed, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft, with one last pointed glance at Sherlock, turned and left.

"He's been here quite a lot, you know." John remarked as he made his way over towards the chair Mycroft had just vacated, though he pulled it significantly closer to Sherlock's side before sitting down.

Sherlock sneered. "Only at Mummy's insistence, I'm sure."

"I think you might be underestimating him."

"Not possible."

John rolled his eyes, before his eyes drifted over to Sherlock's morphine drip. "That's a bit high, isn't it?"

"Janine turned it down."

"Ah." He said for the second time during his visit. "She was quite pissed off with you."

"I imagine so."

"You should see what the tabloids are printing." John's lips quirked upwards in a smile. "Quite unflattering."

"Yes, she brought me a few copies."

"Oh, she's been to visit then? I assumed you two had broken it off or," He trailed off, eyes darting to his lap.

"She only dropped by to let me know that I was a 'backstabbing, manipulative, heartless bastard'," Sherlock smiled, "and that she was buying a cottage in Sussex Downs."

John chuckled. "Well, you can hardly blame her."

"For which?" Sherlock returned his grin.

They sat in easy silence for a moment.

"Did you," John began awkwardly.

"No." Sherlock cut off, not particularly wanting to hear John stumble over the rest of the words.

"Oh." John paused. "Why not? I mean, she was rather attractive and clearly quite clever, and,"

"Let's not."

Once again, the two returned to silence, though it was somewhat less easy than it had been before.

 **September 18** **th** **, 2014 – Late Evening**

"He's told him, it seems."

Mycroft looked up from his laptop, currently sat upon his desk in the back of the Diogenes Club. He hadn't heard Seraphin come in, but then again he never did. What he was startled to see, however, was the large, black German Shepherd that stood beside her, without so much as a lead or a collar.

"Told who what?"

"Don't play stupid, Mycroft. If hardly suits you." Seraphin admonished, moving over to sit in one of the plush leather chairs opposite Mycroft. The dog, needing no prompting, moved along with her before laying at her feet. "I'm surprised you let Sherlock leave hospital in the state he's in. I trust you have medics on standby."

"Of course." Mycroft quickly saved the draft he was working on and then closed his computer, allowing his full attention to rest on the woman in front of him. "Have you already finished the assignment I gave you?"

Seraphin hummed affirmation. "Had it not been for the ridiculous train ride, it would've been a rather simple one. The man had no security detail to speak of."

"He had twelve military-trained men guarding his home."

"All of whom were, as I said, nothing to speak of." Seraphin sighed, sitting back in her chair and fiddling with the sleeve of her purple jumper where it threatened to engulf her hand. "I mean really, when did mercenaries get so dull? They used to be a challenge and now they're all washed up and," She waved her hand dismissively.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Were all twelve eliminated along with the target?"

"Of course they were." She looked suspiciously at him. "When have I ever left a job unfinished? Or, more accurately, when have I ever passed up the opportunity to have more fully sanctioned fun?"

She observed him with narrow eyes, before quickly deducing. "Ah, of course. You're stalling. You're trying to prevent me from getting involved in the little domestic that's happening right about now in Sherlock's flat. Well, no worries there. I, like you, will be remaining an observer. For now, that is."

"That's rather out of character."

"Is it?"

"From the woman who attempted to burn Philip Anderson to death in his sleep after he threw a particularly apt insult towards Sherlock six-and-a-half years ago, yes, I believe that you choosing to do nothing while our brother's shooter goes free is quite out of character. Especially after you went through all the trouble to spy on her while Sherlock was in hospital."

"Philp Anderson, now that was a fun night. If you hadn't interrupted it would have been even better." She hummed. "Although dear Philip's personality seems to have improved greatly over the past few years. Sherlock's death might've been the best thing to ever happen to him."

"Now who's stalling."

"Not stalling, brother mine, avoiding."

Mycroft simply raised an eyebrow.

"If you must know, I'm a bit busy at the moment. I have a new job that'll be taking me out of the country for around three months."

"For who?"

"Nobody that you know."

"I know everybody."

"Fine. Nobody that you like, then."

Mycroft groaned. "Do tell me you're not taking the Micovitch job."

"Okay, I'm not taking the Micovitch job." She repeated childishly. "Oh please, Mycroft, you really expect me to pass it up? A man who cooked and ate three of his own children before disappearing into the wilderness of the Rocky Mountains to become, by all accounts, completely feral?"

"I thought you liked cannibals."

"I do. Delightful people. Usually excellent cooks." She smiled. "This one, however, has a tidy sum on his head that I am quite looking forward to collecting."

"I hardly see why it would take you three months to take care of him."

"It won't. It will take me three months to track down the person or persons responsible for his sudden decline into madness. So far, all leads are pointing towards the use of a biochemical that targeted his brain, causing generalized ataxia, and more directly targeted his prefrontal lobe, causing it to erode his higher thinking, social-oriented behaviors, and impulse control. Obviously, there has to be something additional in play to make him go feral, but that's the fun of it all, isn't it?" She grinned widely. "Imagine if whoever altered Jerry Micovitch could create the same effect on a larger scale? Imagine the chaos; it'd be a virtual zombie apocalypse."

"I'm surprised you'd want to stop that from happening."

Seraphin adopted a comically aghast look. "Why Mycroft, you know I'm always looking out for society's best interests."

"Yes, well if you do release it into the water supply do give me advanced notice so I can insure I only drink bottled."

"As if you'd ever drink tap." She scoffed. "Either way, you'll have to look after Sherlock while I'm gone. I'll have very little cell service in the mountains, and very little desire to be distracted. Though if I am to be out of the country and out of contact for three months, I suppose this is the ideal time to do it."

"What, after he's been shot and nearly killed by his former flatmate's wife?"

"No, after his flatmate has decided to move back in with him for the foreseeable future. We both know that John can look after Sherlock far better than either of us can." She took a moment to stroke the dog's large head. "What is their relationship, by the way?"

"Platonic, as far as I can tell."

"Is it?" She frowned. "What a shame."

"Well I hardly think Sherlock would be the one to make the first move, and Dr. Watson is far too entrenched in his own heterosexuality to do so." Mycroft shifted, oddly uncomfortable with the topic. "I presume they will remain in limbo until one of them dies. Again."

"Or until they are acted upon by an outside force." She said contemplatively. "Isn't that a rule of physics?"

"That's your intention then? To be that force?"

"They'd make a good couple."

Mycroft chuckled sardonically. "Marriage has made you soft, Seraphin."

"I've been married for just over a month, Mycroft."

"Who knew it was so fast-acting." Mycroft scorned. "Mummy is still furious that you excluded her from the ceremony."

"Is she? Good." She smirked. "In all seriousness, Mycroft, I hope you intend to help me."

"Why would I wish to voluntarily entangle myself in Sherlock's love life or lack thereof?"

"Because you love Sherlock and want him to be happy, just as I do." She answered simply.

"And you believe he needs a romantic relationship to be happy?"

"Of course not, just like neither you nor I need one to be such." She sighed, hand returning to the dog's head. "However, with the right person, it can be rather _lovely_. Or at the very least a little less lonely."

"You think I'm lonely?"

She studies him for several moments. "I don't know if you're lonely, Mycroft. But I don't think you're happy."

"I'd hardly be able to recognize the emotion either way."

Seraphin looked at him with a mixture of sadness and thoughtfulness as she twined a strand of her pomegranate-colored hair around a slender finger. "And for that, I'm truly sorry. You deserve happiness, Mycroft. Just as Sherlock does. Just as I do."

She then stood, the dog standing up along with her. "I had better get going, I have a plane to catch."

"You'll be back in time for Christmas Eve, I assume?" Mycroft questioned.

"So eager to spend the holidays with me?"

"Don't tell me you've forgotten your assignment for that night, Seraphin."

She grinned. "Of course not, Mycroft. On the contrary, I'm quite looking forward to it."

 **September 18th, 2014 – Around the same time**

John's mind was buzzing.

Everything had happened so quickly that his brain- or his "feeble, normal" brain, to term it as Sherlock had done so many times before- was left desperately trying and failing to catch up. He imagined it would fill the all-to-familiar hospital hallway with a noise that, were it audible to others, would sound a bit like the whirring a computer fan would make as it desperately attempted to cool down a computer that had attempted to process a program far larger than it had ever been intended to process. In this example, of course, it wasn't a program that had overloaded John's brain but instead the sequential happenings of a particularly eventful and extremely taxing night.

First, Sherlock had shown up behind him in Tesco's queue looking like death warmed over. After taking a moment to reassure himself that it was, in fact, actually Sherlock standing in front of him and not merely a stress-induced hallucination- an occurrence that John hadn't entirely ruled out, given his near constant state of physical and mental fatigue the prior seven days had prompted- John unleashed his full fury at Sherlock for leaving his hospital bed only days after waking from a near-comatose state.

Sherlock, in typical fashion, paid no attention to the doctor's ravings as he pulled him out the store, leaving John's shopping behind at the checkout, and into the nearest cab. John, in typical fashion, didn't bother resisting and simply continued to chastise for several more minutes until he finally paused to ask where they were going.

The only answer he received was Sherlock handing him an exact replica of the detective's signature woolen coat, which was given to him silently and without further instruction nor explanation- therefore being, in truth, no real answer whatsoever.

And then, John found himself sitting alone in the darkened corner of a hollow building above the rumbling of London's tube with his hair mussed up and the collar of his borrowed coat turned up.

Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't for his pregnant wife to walk in, gun in hand, and admit to having been Sherlock's shooter.

Feelings of fury, betrayal, and utter confusion buzzed throughout his mind for the next hour or so, continuing even as he found himself stood in 221B Baker Street, where his chair had been replaced in its familiar position and his tea cup laid out upon the table next to it- an oddly heartfelt gesture from his former flatmate. Or former-former flatmate now, he supposed.

It was only when Sherlock collapsed, medics rushing past him to attend to the man whose heart was quite probably in the late stages of failing, that John's mind oddly quieted.

He was used to that happening in moments of medical emergency, during which times his mind went on auto-pilot. He moved on muscle-memory as his brain became merely a knowledge bank for medical procedure, diagnostics, and terminology. It had been part of what made him such an effective army doctor.

What he hadn't felt before, however, was the way his heart stuttered, and a feeling of cold radiated from it to the very tips of his fingers.

It wasn't panic, he decided. He was familiar with the way panic left him breathless and on-edge as his sympathetic nervous system and his adrenal-cortisol system prepared him to flee or, as was more often the case, to fight.

It wasn't dread either. Dread left his with the same breathlessness that panic did, but without the anticipatory way his muscles tensed and his focus narrowed. Dread left him with a hollowness at the pit of his stomach, an empty hole gnawing at his insides as he fought to stay afloat in a sea of despair and despondency. He had experienced it only a week before, the sensation washing over him and pulling him under like a riptide current.

It wasn't anything he had experienced before, he concluded, though puzzled as to what emotion that could possibly be for, in his thirty-four years of life he had been quite certain he'd experienced them all.

This emotion was sharp and tight, one that didn't leave him breathless but simply without breath. Without life. It was as though he had frostbitten from the inside out, the frost accumulating on the walls of his veins and arteries, turning his blood from red to blue before freezing it solid.

It was as though a spider had crawled into his chest and strung an icy web around his heart, enclosing it in a mesh of frozen dew drops before slowly beginning to tighten the strands, adding more and more frozen layers, until the valves stopped their pulsing and the ventricles stopped their clutching.

The feeling only worsened when he heard Sherlock whimper- a sound one would most associate with that of a grievously wounded and dying animal- to the point John had to lift his fingers to his own wrist, his own pulse point, to insure that his heart was in fact still beating.

The medics moved quickly, attaching Sherlock to oxygen then a portable pulse oximetry with a practiced detachment that John so recognized and so desperately envied.

Everyone could hear the erratic blips the small machine had begun to make as it mechanically imitated Sherlock's heartbeat. They seemed to echo just as much within the warm walls of Baker Street as they had in the sterile ones of the surgery hallway.

The paramedics wasted no time in lifting Sherlock's half-limp, half-seizing body onto the gurney, one swiftly attaching a morphine drip to the IV fluids as the other secured the oxygen mask. With both things accomplished, they urged the gurney towards the door and the waiting ambulance that rested just beyond the stairs.

John moved to follow, subconsciously rubbing his palms together in a futile attempt to shake the chill from them, mind still absently trying to name the sensation.

Only when he looked back on the moment a year or so later would John be able to identify the feeling as the acute sense of loss the death, or near death, of one you love so completely, so entirely, that their warmth is your warmth, their breath is your breath, and their heart is so integrally tied to your own that when theirs stops beating yours breaks in two.


End file.
